She hesitates and looks up at me. Her eyes wide. I am amazed at how many expressions this woman has. A minute ago, she looked like a snow leopard assessing her prey, and now she reminds me of a lost kitten begging to be fed and cuddled.
She answers, too softly for anyone else to hear:
“Maybe.”
And that’s when it hits me — the whole picture.
The stolen badge.
The plain clothes.
The way she keeps checking over her shoulder.
She didn’t come here to find anyone.
She came here to disappear.
Snowflakes drift outside the glass, catching light like sparks.
I set the bottle down, leaning closer but not touching her.
“Well,” I say. “If you want to disappear, you’re doing a terrible job of it.”
She purses her lips and gives me a half-smile.
“You’re not telling on me, are you?”
“No, because if you want to avoid me,” I add softly, “you’re doing an even worse one.”
And then, without warning, her hand crosses the distance between us, and her palm is on my torso. The contact sends shivers up my spine, and as she looks into my eyes, I drown.
“Do you,” I swallow. “Want to grab a beer?”
I finally say.
“I would have wine,” she answers slowly, still giving me that intense, curious look as if daring me to grab her hand, her ass, her anything, testing my reaction and absolutely certain of the effect she has on me.
“Wouldn’t recommend it,” I stammer. “The kind of wine they have here is not for the kind of lady you are.”
“Beer it is, then,” she shrugs and heads towards the nearest empty couch, sitting down.
When I am standing in front of the fridge, I take a breath.
Get it together, Nico. It’s just a woman.
Another breath, less shaky now.
You just won an Olympic silver medal. You’re the hero here. She’s just any other fan.
Another breath, steady. A smile spreads across my lips.
That’s it. I know this script. My whole fucking body knows this script. I’ve been there countless times.
I grab a bottle of Paulaner, open it, and throw the cap into the bin, missing by a mile. Then I sit next to her and hand her the bottle, touching her fingers deliberately. She does not flinch, nor does she pull away, but takes the beer.
I watch her, mesmerized. She grips the bottle, hesitates, then raises it to her lips.
“You’ve never drunk beer from a bottle, right?” I ask as foam trickles down her shirt.
